Harry Potter & The Voice Of God
by Fyrie
Summary: Harry Potter/Dogma crossover - Harry's in fifth year and someone "up there" decides to take a look-in at Hogwarts. CHAPTER 4 ADDED - 11th Dec
1. Flaming Hell!

Harry Potter & The Voice Of God

Chapter One – Flaming Hell!

"Right," Ron rolled up his sleeves and clapped his hands. "Let's get started."

"Ron, this is ridiculous," Harry couldn't help smiling as his friend whipped out a scroll of scribbled-on parchment and a quill, then surveyed Harry with an expression copied from Rita Skeeter. 

Or a psychiatrist in a muggle film.

"Ridiculous or not, we're not going to wait for bad and mad thing to come to us this time and catch us by surprise!"

The two boys were sitting in the common room, their second day back at Hogwarts for their fifth year, and they were occupying the round table that stood beside one of the high windows that lined the curved wall.

The rest of the room was empty.

Most of the other Gryffindors were down at the Great Hall, but Harry had already felt a bit put off by the stares that he continued to get, the incidents of the Tri-Wizard Tournament still fresh in many minds.

Which was why he and Ron were in the Common Room. If they were to take bets on the whereabouts of Hermione, it was clearly going to be somewhere beginning with 'L' and filled from floor to ceiling with books. 

It was also why Ron was interviewing him.

"Ron, we knew they were coming last year and that didn't stop them..."

"Will you shut up and let me do my job?" Sighing, Ron shook his head. "Bloody amateurs, the lot of you...well, one of you anyway." He cleared his throat. "Have you, Mr. Potter, experienced any scar-pains this summer not caused by being whacked on the head by one of Hermione's books, knocked out by one of Fred and/or George's 'fun' bludgers or being caught in one of Ginny's patented Harry-Potter traps?"

"Ron..." he couldn't help laughing.

"Mr Potter," A green quill was practically shoved up his nose. "Answer the question if you please..."

"All right, all right," Swatting the quill from his nose, Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, I have had pain in my scar," he paused, then added with a grin. "I've also had a rather nasty tickly cough, if you think that'll be important..."

Ron huffed something else about immature amateurs, while scribbling something on his sheet of parchment.

"Question two," he said. "Do you agree that I'm better-looking that Seamus?"

"What does that have to do with You-Know-Who?"

Ron grinned. "Nothing. I was just curious."

"And you wondered why I wasn't interested in this interview over the summer..."

"You're loving it really," His friend's head bowed over his sheet.

Harry couldn't help smiling a little. 

Yes, it was true. 

He liked the fact that Ron was cheerfully taking the mickey out of what everyone else around him kept doing. He was getting tired of the questions about the Dark Lord and what had really _really_ happened on the night that Cedric Diggory had died.

"Have you," Ron asked, his tone dead serious. "Met, seen or been approached by any shifty-looking characters in robes and masks, who have asked you if you would be interested in meeting their Dark-Lord-employer so he can try to kill you again?"

Harry started to laugh in earnest.

"What?" Ron tried to look hurt, shrugging. "They might be that stupid."

Shaking his head, still chuckling, Harry managed to deadpan. "No, Ron, I haven't seen anyone like that."

"Right, that settles it," Ron decided with finality, laying his question sheet down.

Harry hid a grin. "And what do you think?"

"As usual," he replied, with the air of someone talking about the weather. "We're going to have a bloody awful year in which we almost get killed by a mad Dark Lord and his minions in masks and robes, have Hermione lecturing us about everything, fall asleep several times in divination, get points taken in potions and kick Slytherin's arse at Quidditch."

"And you got all that from three questions?"

Ron grinned. "Nah. I'm bored, so I got that from every other year we've been here."

"Fair enough," Harry got to his feet. "At least it's starting quietly this year."

"Like it did, oh, say last year and the year before and the year before that..."

Harry shrugged. "I suppose..."

"You're saying second year was a quiet start?"

"Er..."

"Flying car, whomping willow...ringing any bells?"

The dark-haired boy suddenly caught up. "Ah..."

Ron made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "And that was nothing. What about third year? You blowing up your aunt and Sirius on the loose?"

"All right, all right!" Harry laughed. "I get the point! But nothing has happened so far this year..."

He spoke to soon.

"BEHOLD THE METATRON!" a thunderous voice seemed to shake the very walls of the Common Room.

A surge of flame exploded out of thin air, forming a flaming pillar about six feet tall on the rug in front of the table. Ron yelled in fright and fell backwards on his chair, Harry leaping back. 

"BEHOLD THE METATRON! THE VOICE OF GOD!"

Yanking his wand out, Harry pointed it at the flaming...thing. 

"Aquatis!" he yelled, spraying a gush of water from the tip of his wand at the fire, a hiss sounding, as steam and smoke billowed around them.

"Ack! Stop it! Stop it!" A less-thunderous voice cried indignantly, a figure becoming visible as the smoke and steam dispersed. He was waving his hand in front of his face, coughing. "Bloody hell! Doesn't anyone stand and stare in awe anymore?"

Scrambling to his feet on the other side the table, his own wand out, Ron gaped at the man. "Who are you?"

"Hello?" A sarcastic, bored voice drawled back, making both boys think of Snape for some odd reason. "Weren't you listening or are you stone deaf? I'm the Metatron, like I said."

"The what?"

The figure stopped flapping a hand in front of his face and looked at Harry. Both of the boys gasped and Ron looked like he was about to drop his wand in shock. 

"The Metatron, one of the highest of the choirs of angels and voice of God," the man replied, brushing a hand down his dripping trousers. "And you don't have a towel, do you? I'm bloody soaked."

"Harry...?" Ron whispered.

"I-I know..."

The man rolled his eyes. "Right...now, you start staring. Column of fire to get everyone's attention and people spray you with stuff. Dripping and getting pneumonia and people stare at you like no one's business..."

The boys kept staring.

It was impossible.

It had to be impossible.

It was...Snape.

Or, at least it was what Snape would look like with short, spiky hair, a purple top, black trousers - which, as he had pointed out, were currently dripping - and a black leather jacket that hung down to his thighs...

"Wh-who did you say you were again?" Harry asked.

"The Metatron," the man said, clearly getting frustrated at a rapid rate. "What are you? Thick in the head? I've said it four times already and now, I'm freezing my arse off while you two gawp at me..."

"But you look like Snape," Ron said, still staring.

"Yeah, whatever, can I please get a bloody towel?" Hastily summoning a towel, Harry thrust it towards the very strange man, who took it and started dabbing at the ends of his trousers. "It never ends..." he muttered.

"Ex-cuse me," Harry started to ask carefully. "But what is the Metatron?"

"I am. I'm the voice of God," the man answered. "And before you ask, I'm not a random insane wizard. I'm an angel." 

"Right..." Harry had the strange urge to back away, nodding politely.

His hands on his hips, the man raised his eyes towards the ceiling. 

"You're as bad as she was," he grumbled. "I hate doing the visuals in public like this, but if it convinces you..." he spread his hands at the level of his hips and said in a deep and majestic voice. "I am the Metatron."

Music that sounded like it came from a Cathedral rippled around the room, a strange ethereal glow emanating around the man, but that wasn't what got the attention of the two Gryffindor boys.

"Aaaaaaaaaaargh!"

Harry agreed with Ron's sentiments, as a pair of large, white, feathery wings spread out from behind the man's shoulders.

The smirk on the man's face was vintage Snape, his hands coming back to his hips.

"Wings!" Ron's grip on his wrist was cutting off the circulation to his left hand, but Harry couldn't form coherent words to tell his friend that a) his hand was going to drop off and b) he could see what Ron could see. "Harry! He has wings! He has bleeding wings!"

"Like I said," the man drawled, still smirking at them. "I'm an angel. Now, do I have your attention?"


	2. God, Angels & Platypi?

Harry Potter & The Voice Of God

Chapter Two - God, Angels &...Platypi?

Notes: Whee! Over 20 reviews for 1 piddling little chapter! I'm so proud! :D And I figured I might as well do some author's notes to clear up and make with explanations etc - I got the idea for this baby in a Documentary class (what? Like I was paying attention!) and the tutor was talking about "Voice-of-God" narrators. 

See my train of thought - "Sigh, Alan Rickman is too yummy as Snape (I was reading the potions class scene in book one at the time and yes, in the lecture)...hmm...voice of God narrator...boring...oh! Alan Rickman as the Metatron in Dogma is the Voice of God...hehe...I'm so funny and clever with my simple word-association skills...oh! Now wouldn't it be funny if Snape and the Metatron met! Hehe! I really am SO funny! Why does no one realise this? Ooh...there's a good title for a fic, actually... Harry Potter and the Voice of God...bet no ones ever done...holy poop! What if THE Metat...oh bugger...there goes my plan for getting work done." 

And you get the basic idea. By the time I left the lecture I had a two-page scene written and no notes for my essay (which I screwed up severely last week, for anyone who is interested) :) For those of you who haven't seen Dogma - good god! See it! See it now! It SO rules! Alan Rickman steals the whole film! He kicks so much booty with the sarcasm and the attitude and the wingspan! Don't get me started on the wing span!

Anyway, I've not decided whether anyone else from the film is going to show face yet, but it could have potentially funny consequences...now, though, I've bored you enough! Onto the fic!

Oh, and the platypus is significant, as you'll know if you've seen the film ;)

_________________________

"You...you could have just transfigured them..."

It really was an utterly surreal scene.

The Metatron was standing, hands on his hips, wings at full spread. Ron was still pointing a shaking wand at him, looking dubious, while Harry was staring at the wings in utter amazement.

"Can you fly?"

"Well, I don't have them to makes carrot-topped boys scream like girls," he replied dryly. He gave Ron a look and smirked. "But it is a funny side-effect."

"Hey!"

"Face it, Weasley," the...angel said to him. "You scream like a little sissy girl and you know it."

"Right! That's...you know my name?"

The Metatron threw his head back and exhaled a huff of exasperation, his wings drooping a little. "Of course I know your name, you twit," he replied, eyes rolling to the ceiling again. "You're only one of the three nutcases I've been sent to see."

"You were sent to see us?"

"Well, if I'd been sent to see the Pope, I must have got the wrong bloody bus, that's all I'm saying," the Metatron muttered, shooting a glance at Harry. "And shut your trap, Potter. You'll catch a fly in a minute..." Harry gagged. "Oh, too late..."

Slapping Harry firmly on the back, Ron studied the Metatron. "You're here to see me, Harry and Hermione, aren't you?"

"Smart little thing, aren't you, Weasley?" the angel drawled, looking around and spotting one of the big, comfy chairs in front of the fireplace. Sauntering over to it, he adjusted his wings out of sight and sat down, stretching out his legs. "And yes, I'm here with a mission from God for you and your mad little band."

"Mission from God?" choked out Harry. "Mission...from...God?"

"Yes, a mission from God. What? Is there a parrot in here or something?"

"From God? _The_ God?"

"Well, I don't exactly work for Microsoft, do I?" Both boys exchanged puzzled looks. The angel groaned. "Perfectly good one-liners and I get left with the two little plonkers who don't get it...yes, You. God. Mission. From. Simple enough answer?"

"But why us?"

Interlacing his hands behind his head, the angel studied the ceiling above them. "I don't do the casting, Potter," his intonation of Harry's name was frighteningly like Snape's. "I just go where I'm told and hand out deadly missions to random humans."

"Deadly missions? Well, that's just brilliant!" Ron punched Harry on the arm. "I told you we were gonna end up almost getting killed again! Didn't I?" he exclaimed. "It's the same! Every bloody year!"

"Maybe that's why then," the Snape-a-like suggested, raising his eyebrows. "Maybe you having a quiet year was going to be a shock to the system so God sent this little thing along to keep you occupied."

"But I don't believe in God," Harry said faintly. Ron nodded in agreement.

"You think that bothers her?"

"HER?"

The Metatron smirked. "I love saying that," he sighed blissfully. "just for the look on people's faces. If you don't believe in her, what does it matter if she's male, female or a hermaphroditic polka-dot guinea-pig in a neon green bikini?"

Both boys were gawping at him, eyes bulging at the image that conjured up.

"Let me get this straight..." Harry crossed the floor and sat down in the chair facing the Metatron, who gave him a lazy look. "You tell us you're an angel, bringing us a mission from God, who is female, that might put us in danger, and you expect us to believe all that? What do you think we are? Stupid?"

"You want me to answer that honestly?"

"You're going to have to prove it better than that."

"How?"

"Um..."

Snape-a-like smirked again. "You tell me what'll convince you that God is real and that I'm really an angel and if I manage to convince you, you take the mission, no questions asked..."

"Tell God to come here."

The angel ran a hand through his tousled hair. "She's in a meeting and I don't like the chances of your Head Master's head surviving intact when something as powerful as her comes down in the castle."

"Well, I'm convinced," Ron said, his voice dripping sarcasm, his wand still pointed at the man in the chair. "He's really an angel and we're really about to go and almost get our arses kicked on a mission for God."

"Hello! God! Whole planet to run!" The Metatron released a sigh. "Its not like I have a bloody beeper for her."

"If you're an angel, you can do...magical stuff?" Ron suggested.

"Like you do with that..." He smirked at the wand in Ron's hand. "Platypus..."

"Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

Harry gaped at his friend, who had just dropped the rather heavy, furry thing that his wand had turned into, and then at the platypus that was scuttling across the floor in a break for freedom. 

The Metatron just leaned back in his seat, still smirking.

"Turn it back!" Ron yelled, pelting after his runaway wand. "It's only a year old!"

The angel yawned. "Don't see what it's got to do with me," he drawled. "After all, neither of you believe in me or God or our mission or anything anyway. You're the wizard, aren't you?"

Ron paused to glare at him. "I'm really starting to not like you," he said.

"Charmed, I'm sure," the Metatron snickered. "And you might want to catch your wand before it tries to dive out the window..."

***

Twenty minutes later, Ron's wand back in it's normal and less-furry form and both boys sitting on the seats by the fire near the Metatron, they were watching as the so-called angel drank butterbeer. 

Or didn't drink it as the case was.

Harry had provided a bottle of it, when the angel had...offered to turn his wand into a sabre-toothed tiger, which would certainly have taken a lot more explaining than a rabid platypus, had it been caught running around the common room.

Both of them were dying to ask why he was taking mouthfuls of the substance, swilling it around, then spitting it into a cup that Harry had also provided, when the threat went from tiger to mammoth.

Ron, though, was still distracted by his wand, which kept quivering as if it was going to flee again.

"Ex...cuse me?"

"Mmm?" The Metatron raised his brows, as he spat a mouthful of butterbeer into the cup in his left hand, the bottle held in his right.

"Why do you...well...spit it out?"

The angel studied the glass, which was already getting full, then leaned forward and tipped the contents into the fire. 

"It's a long story involving drunken angels, God getting given the finger and booze being banned for all angels. Bit unfair if you ask me, but then, I'm not stupid enough to pick a fight with God," He looked at the bottle ponderously. "I don't even know if this counts as booze, but it's better to be on the safe side."

"Someone gave God the finger?" Ron asked, petting his trembling wand.

"An angel by the name of Loki. Got himself kicked out of Heaven for it."

"He was sent to Hell?" Harry looked a little shocked at the punishment. 

The angel shook his head, swilling another mouthful. 

"Worse," he said. "Wisconsin."

"Is he...still there?"

An odd expression crossed the Angel's face. He almost seemed sad. "Poor kid," he sighed. "All he wanted to do was come home and Bartleby had to go and bugger things up for nearly everyone..."

"Eh?"

The Metatron regarded the bottle in his hand for a long moment. "The last mission I was landed with was to save the World from two fallen angels who were trying to break the rules and get back into Heaven. One of them...he changed his mind and the bloke he counted as a friend killed him."

"Bartleby was the one that killed Loki?" Harry hazarded a guess.

"Got it in one, Potter," the Metatron sighed. "Mind you, a lot of people died that day, before She came back and cleared everything up..." He was studying the label on the bottle of butterbeer. 

A silence fell, only broken by the squeaks from Ron's wand.

All three of them looked around when the portrait over the portrait hole squeaked as it swung open.

Hermione Granger crawled through the hole, her arms laden with books and straightened up in the common room. Hermione's brown eyes sparkled at her friends, then noticed an adult gazing at her from around the edge of one of the chairs.

"So this is the infamous Hermione Granger," the Metatron remarked. "At last I'll be able to get you started on your mission. I'm dying to get home..."

Hermione looked accusingly from Ron to Harry, who both shrugged helplessly in her direction. "Who are you?" she demanded sharply, turning to the man. "And what on earth are you talking about?"


	3. There's Always One

Chapter Three - There's Always One

Notes: This is the illusive scene I wrote while paying so much attention in my class for Documentary. Its been tidied up a bit, but here we have the most rational person in Hogwarts needing a bit of convincing.

________________________

"Angel?" Hermione's eyes were narrowed, her face screwed up, the expression Harry and Ron were very familiar when she asked them if they were up to something and they denied it. It was her suspicious face. "What do you mean you're an 'angel'?"

The Metatron gave her a look that implied he thought she was deeply stupid. It was an expression she wasn't used to having directed at her and she carefully took a step back from him. 

Obviously, he had to be very dangerous.

"It means," he replied, clearly bored with labouring his point. "That I am an angel. One of the Cherubim and Seraphim. The Metatron to be specific," He took a swig from the bottle of butterbeer that Harry had acquired for him, then spat the mouthful into a glass. Hermione's face went from suspicious to disgusted. The Metatron didn't seem to notice and finished. "The Voice of God."

Harry and Ron, having been through the conversation minutes earlier, were watching with amusement. It was different to be the observer and the look on Hermione's face was definitely worth staying quiet for. When he had turned up in the common room in a pillar of flame and sprouted a rather impressive set of wings, they had believed what he said. 

After all, there was no way he could have apparated into the school - four years of Hermione had taught them that, with reference to some book or other - and even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to pull off that spectacular fire stunt without at least a little damage to the room.

Plus, wings...

Kind of made them go 'Oooooh!'.

Or, in Ron's case, 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!', but close enough.

Hermione, on the other hand, was a little more sceptical.

"You're the Voice of God?" The Metatron's eyes rolled skywards - or maybe even Heavenwards - as if to say 'Here we go again'. "What do you mean 'voice of God'?"

"I mean 'voice of God'," he said, his patience clearly spread thin. "If God were to show up here and now and speak to you directly, your head would explode, because of the power of it, so God has someone to act as the voice, cos it did get a bit messy with heads popping, left right and centre…"

"And you can actually speak to God? Because you're a real angel?" The scepticism was dripping off her voice.

"What is this?" he groaned. "Twenty questions? Yes! I can speak to God. Yes, because I am an angel."

"But you don't…look like an angel," She looked him up and down, where he was slouched in the largest, squashiest chair in the common room. 

"Well, you don't look like a witch, but I don't rub it in, do I?" He gave her a withering look. "Would you prefer it if I was prancing around wearing a white frock with a harp and let my wings out? If that's the case, where's your hat and broom?"

"In the dormitory," she answered, her nose in the air.

The Metatron shook his head. "There always has to be one."

"Hold on a minute," She stared at him. "Did you just say 'let my wings out'?"

Raising the hand holding the bottle, he pointed a finger at her. "Don't even think about asking. These two have seen 'em," Harry and Ron both nodded enthusiastically in assent. "And even if I did, if any of your classmates show up and I'm flashing at you, it'll take a lot of explaining…"

"Flashing?" Hermione's disgusted expression intensified.

"Oh Gawd…" His head rolling back on his shoulders, he stared at the ceiling, then looked back at the girl. "Why do all women always assume that everyone wants to get in their knickers?"

"You were the one who brought up flashing!" she stated levelly, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Well, much as I'd love to whip my tackle out and give you a good show, I'm afraid I can't," He took another mouthful of butterbeer and spat it into the cup. "One, I don't have any and two, that would also take a lot of explaining if someone walked in and caught me with my trousers down in a common room."

"You don't have any?"

The Metatron blinked up at her. "Angels," he replied slowly. "Are genderless. We don't need all those wonderful dangly additions or inserts that your species does. Am I making myself absolutely clear?"

Hermione's arms seemed to cross a little further over her chest if that was possible, making her looks as strict as McGonagall on a very bad day. Her nostrils flared and her lips pursed, making it more than obvious she didn't like the smug, sarcastic man currently swilling and spitting butterbeer in the common room.

"Well…"

"Hmm?"

"How are you going to prove that you're an angel? You say you have wings, but you can't let them out and you appear and set yourself on fire," She sniffed. "I think that I might go and get Professor Dumbledore."

The Metatron sighed. "No one does anything on faith these days," he sounded sad, almost talking to himself. Looking up, he gazed at Hermione for a long moment, then said. "After everything you've seen here, you can't believe in this one thing without seeing the physical evidence?" Her lips pursed tighter. "Why do I always get landed with convincing the sceptics?"

Ron raised his eyebrows. "Sounds like you've had to do it before."

"Yeah…once or twice," He smirked a little. "Infertile woman, losing her faith, ends up meeting me, dead apostles, demons, prophets, muses, two angels and God, then ends up pregnant by no one after being raised from the dead." He swilled another mouthful of butterbeer and gobbed it into the cup he was holding, smirking again. "I think she was convinced."

There was a moment of silence during which he studied his near empty bottle, then bent to place it on the fireplace.

"I tell you what," he said, standing up and brushing his hands down his jacket. "How about I treat you to a drink, to make up for wasting your time and for annoying the silly little girl," The trio stared. He _really_ did sound like Snape. 

"All...all right," Ron answered for the other two.

"No! We can't! Its the first week! Not Hogsmeade weekend!"

The Metatron gave the girl a smirk. "Who said anything about Hogsmeade?" he asked, before clapping his hands together.

"I..." Hermione's mouth fell open, as she realised that they were no longer in the Common Room.

Harry and Ron were quick to replicate the expression.

"Well, come on," the Metatron suggested patronisingly, steered the three of them towards one of the booths that lined the wall. They were staring around, looking a tiny bit shell-shocked.

"Good afternoon, sir," a voice very familiar to the three Gryffindors spoke. "And what can we get..." Tom trailed off when he looked at the three white-faced Hogwarts pupils. "Goodness! Harry Potter!"

Harry tried to grin weakly at the bar keeper of the London pub, but failed. Somehow, the Metatron had managed to get all three of them from Hogwarts straight to The Leaky Cauldron just by clapping his hands.

"They're with me, Tom," the Metatron said, smirking all over his face. 

Tom stared at the angel for a long moment, then nodded. "What can I get for all of you, sir?"

"Four butterbeers."

Nodding, Tom scuttled off, as the Metatron stretched out his legs, lounging back in the long bench and smirking across the table at the three Gryffindors, who were looking around a little nervously.

"Ow! Stop poking me!" Hermione yelped, swatting at Ron's hand.

"Just checking I wasn't dreaming, Hermione," he said unapologetically.

"You're meant to pinch yourself," she pointed out huffily. "And since when do I appear in your dreams?" Ron went an odd shade of pink. Hermione noticed and also went an equally odd shade of pink.

"Um..."

"Well..."

Harry couldn't help grinning. He glanced at their adult companion and wasn't surprised to see a smile cross the angel's face as well. "So we know two things," he said. "We know this isn't a dream and we know that the Metatron has to be an angel or a good bloke at best."

"How do we know _that_?" Hermione demanded, trying to hide her blush.

The dark-haired boy shrugged. "Well, he didn't take us straight to Voldemort, so I suppose its only logic."

"Which leads onto my reason for being here," There was a pause as Tom delivered the four butterbeers and a large glass, which he placed in front of the Metatron with a knowing look. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it..."

Harry had the unmistakable urge to start humming the Mission: Impossible theme. 


	4. Your Mission, Should You Choose To Accep...

Chapter Four - Your Mission, Should You Choose To Accept It...

Notes: Sorry for this one taking so long, but I'm really needing to see Dogma again, before I can work on it. My Metatron is getting a little rusty (and no, nothing as kinky as that!), so this is just going to be a basic chapter. (Plus, wrote 4 chs. of other stuff last night, so felt I had to do something for all the people who like this)

_______________________________

"You..."

Harry, Ron and Hermione all leaned forward, holding their breath, wondering just what the mission would be.

After all, having been transported instantly from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in Scotland, to The Leaky Cauldron, in London, by a strange man with wings - who looked very like Snape - when he clapped his hands...

They could hardly doubt that something very weird was going on and accepting his explanation that he was an angel seemed to be the easiest option, since they couldn't exactly go running to Dumbledore.

Not unless they had taken up cross-country running very quickly.

The Metatron seemed aware of the importance of dramatic statements, looking from one face to the other, before he finally intoned their mission, in a voice that only the coolest people in the world could possibly manage.

"Have to defeat some evil bloke called Voldemort."

"AGAIN?"

None of them could be sure who actually made the exclamation the loudest, only that the Metatron just raised his eyebrows and took another warm swill of butterbeer, a smirk on his lips.

"Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant," Ron moaned, sinking back in the seat, the excited flush in his cheeks fading to chalk white. "As if learning to shave wasn't enough..."

"Although, this is actually a good thing," Hermione said.

Ron and Harry stared her as if she had grown another head, which was actually making the crazy sounds instead of nice, normal, level-headed Hermione.

"Hermione," Ron pointed a finger at her, his face going grey. "I always thought it might be true, but now I know it. You are barking mad!"

Swatting his hand away with a huff of impatience, Hermione shook her head. "You weren't listening were you? Didn't you hear him say that our mission is to defeat You-Know-Who?"

"Actually, Hermione, we did hear him say that, which is why Ron's face is going all colours of the rainbow now," Harry said and Ron spluttered in agreement and went an appropriate shade of turquoise.

"No!" Hermione exclaimed. "Honestly, don't you two get it?"

"That we're going to get ourselves killed by going after You-Know-Who?"

Brown eyes flashed at them. "It's a mission for God," she exclaimed eagerly. "Look, every other time we've have to face You-Know-Who, its because we were doing what thought was right."

"Or because we were breaking the rules," Harry added.

"Or because we didn't like Snape," Ron conceded.

"Or because Dumbledore kept dropping subtle hints, leaving pointers and giving you that bloody invisibility cloak," the Metatron put in cheerfully. "So you had no excuse not to be nosy little prats."

Hermione huffed with indignation. "Yes, but that's not the point! This time, we're actually being told to go after him!"

"And that makes it so much better than doing it ourselves?" Ron demanded.

"Ron, you really don't know what this means, do you?"

Ron shrugged. "I know that my arse'll be on the line, if that's what you mean. I mean, come on, Hermione. We're only fifteen and we're being sent on a mission for God," he replied, looking none-too-pleased about the thought of it. "We'll probably kick the bucket if we go after You-Know-Who."

Looking to the Metatron for denial, Harry was rather...concerned by the impassive look on the angel's face. "Do...do people die a lot on missions for God?" he asked.

"From time to time," the Metatron replied lazily. "Nothing to worry about really."

Harry stood up immediately. "Well, Mr. Metatron," he said, hoping he wasn't sounding too rude. "Its been very nice meeting you, but if you don't mind, I think I'm going to have to say no to this mission thing. I've almost died four years in a row and I'm really not in the mood for it to happen again this year."

"Harry!" Hermione gasped.

"Look, Hermione, I just want a quiet term."

"But-but this is different!" she squeaked, her eyes round. "This is an actual mission from GOD! You have celestial intervention! You can't turn down a decreed Mission from God!"

"Smart, this one," the Metatron noted. "Best keep an eye on her, Mr. Weasley," he directed the comment at Ron, who went scarlet. "Don't want someone snatching her before you get a chance to."

Hermione blinked at the Metatron, then at Ron. "What on earth is he talking about?"

Ron went scarlet and made a sound vaguely like, "Abemeguh..."

There was a brief silence, in which Hermione blinked, then went pink. "SO!" she exclaimed in a slightly shriller voice than usual. "Mr. Metatron, tell him! He has to do this Mission, doesn't he?"

"No I don't!" Harry protested and the Metatron nodded.

"Afraid he's right, Granger," he replied dryly. "Although, it would be a hell of a lot easier if people just did what they were told, instead of having to be convinced at a later date."

Harry set his jaw. "I'm not going to change my mind," he said.

"Thought you might say that," the Metatron drawled. "But in case you do, there are a few things you can keep an eye open for, as a sign that your mission is well and truly underway anyway."

Harry made a feeble sound in his throat. "Don't I get a choice?"

"Sorry, Potter, order from the top of the ladder. Nothing to do about it."

Sitting back down heavily, Harry scowled. "I hate my life."

"Don't be daft," the Metatron breezed. "If you'd lived a happy life, you'd be bored out of your mind and end up in a loony bin before you hit twenty. At least this way, we keep you on your toes..."

"So what are the signs then?"

"Well," Leaning forward, the Metatron folded his hands on the table and studied the boy. "There are the prophets. You'll know them when you see them and, whatever happens, don't lose them. They're essential players."

"Real prophets?" Hermione said. "With prophesies?"

"Hmm, I smell a sceptic. What now, Granger?"

Hermione gave him a measured look. "Do they make real prophesies?"

"Well, they don't knit bedsocks for old ladies," The girl huffed an indignant sound through her nose. "Look, I convinced you I'm an angel from God. Can't you just let the prophet thing slide?"

Looking dubious, Hermione sat back. "So...prophets. How do we recognise them?"

"There'll be three of them," the Metatron answered ponderously, watching his fingertip trace small circles on the tabletop. "One of them will talk. At great length. Mainly about himself. Actually, I doubt you'll be able to shut him up. The other two won't say much, but when they do...well, you better listen."

"Three prophets? Isn't that a little much?"

"They all have their moments," the Metatron replied with a smirk.

"But how will we know that we're looking for the right people?"

"Oh, you won't be looking for them, Potter," the angel said. "They'll find you and you'll know who they are when they get to you. One of them will tell you that they're the prophets."

"And they'll know what we have to do?"

The Metatron's smirk was purely wicked, eyes glinting. "They won't have a clue."

Harry, Hermione and Ron stared across the table at him in confused bewilderment, each of them clearly forming question after question in their mind.

"So we have three prophets," Harry started to work through the facts he had, hoping he didn't sound as stupid as he felt he did. "Who don't know what they are, who are meant to help us on our mission to defeat Voldemort?"

"And to save the world from total destruction. You forgot that bit." Three mouths fell open. The Metatron groaned. "Bloody hell...I knew I forgot to mention something!" He fished into his pocket and withdrew a notepad and pen. "Right. Convince the trio I'm an angel. Check. Do some trick to really convince 'em. Check. Tell 'em they have a mission. Check. Detail mission. Check. Inform 'em of prophets. Check. Remember to inform them that the fate of the whole world's very existence rests on their choice of accepting or refusing the mission, detailing the fact that if Voldemort has his own way and manages to pull off the little plan that he's looking into now and opens the Seventh seal before the best-before date, the world will turn inside out and life as we know it will cease to exist..." he looked up from the pad. "Did you catch that or do I have to repeat it?"

Three pairs of eyes blinked at him.

"We...we have to stop...You-Know-Who...from..."

"Opening the Seventh Seal before its due date and negating all existence!" the Metatron cut in. "I hate it when people need things spelled out for them."

"Well...thank you..." Harry said slowly, easing out of the seat and standing up. "I think we'll be going...now..."

Hermione and Ron seemed to share this sentiment.

The Metatron shrugged with a lazy smile. "When things start, Potter, like you said once, the trouble will find you," he said. "Its just up to you if you're willing to do what you do best."

"And what is that?" Harry demanded, a little more coldly than he intended.

"Get by with a little help from your friends."

A large silver bell appeared in the Metatron's hand, which Harry vaguely recognised from the bar counter of The Leaky Cauldron, and he winked at Harry and gave it a enthusiastic shake.

***

Jerking upright, Harry gasped as he came awake.

"Bloody hell!" Ron yelped, jerking upright beside him.

Running a hand through his hair, Harry looked around, shaken. They were...in the common room and he was sitting on the chair in front of the fire, Ron beside him and Hermione on the chair opposite, looking white in the face.

"I-I just had a rather odd dream..." Hermione said carefully.

"An angel..." Ron looked a little disturbed. "An angel with wings..."

"So it wasn't just me..." Harry felt oddly relieved.

"My wand...a platypus..."

"You poked me..."

Harry shuddered. "A mission from God..." he mumbled, shifting on his seat, then wincing when something dug into his back. Reaching behind him, his hand closed over something cold and metallic.

"Why did we get pulled into your dreams, then?" Ron demanded.

Harry didn't say anything for a long time, as he pulled out the item on his chair, his mouth going very dry and his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he realised what it actually meant.

"I-I don't think it was a dream," he finally said, his voice shaking, as he held out the object he had been leaning rather uncomfortably against.

It was the silver bell from The Leaky Cauldron. 


End file.
